I Believe That Fate Has Brought Us Here
by BrandedButterfly
Summary: When the boys stumble upon a young woman, nearly murdered and with no memory, they have to help her discover who she is before it's too late to fix everything. Just who is this mystery woman, and what did she do to deserve murder? Read to find out!
1. Or Am I Just A Picture From a Photograph

**_So this is my newest newsie fanfiction. I plan on updating this about once a week, depending on the amount of reviews. The entire story is already written, so no worries about late updates this time. I really like this story, even though it's not too long. I don't own newsies, but I do own the girl-who-has-no-name in this chapter. Enjoy. _**

**Chapter One**

It had been seventeen years since there had been such a humidity-free summer. The usually oppressive summer heat was suspiciously missing the Independence Day of 1901. I'd lived in Manhattan for eighteen out of my nineteen years, and not once in my memory had Manhattan been as pleasant as it was that summer.

I was walking home from Harlem that night without the usual sweat dripping down my neck and plastering my unbuttoned white shirt to my skin. I had removed my cap and shoved it into the loose pocket of my trousers, striding along the sidewalk toward my home. High above the sky scrapers, fireworks were exploding in flashy displays of reds, greens, and purples. It was my favorite part of the summer, the part where I got to forget all my troubles and just be a kid again. The part where I didn't have to scrape up enough money just to get by every day, and I could just sit back and enjoy the holiday.

Even though it was a quarter till midnight, and I was supposed to be back at the Lodging House by half past when the doors were locked, I sat down on the stoop of a closed watch shop. My companion, a tall blonde boy half a year younger than myself, as well as either of us could remember our birthdays, stopped when he noticed I was no longer by his side. We'd been walking in silence so it took him a minute to notice.

"Hey," He said, coming back to the watch shop. He didn't sound annoyed that I had stopped without him. There wasn't much that could upset or annoy Kid Blink.

I didn't even bother looking at him. "Hey back." I replied, resting my elbows on my knees and turning my face up to watch the amazing display of brilliance far above us.

Blink sat down next to me, pushing his own cap back on his straight blonde hair. He followed my gaze upward with his good eye. His left one was covered with a faded brown patch. Funny that I had never asked him about it; I had wondered often enough. I suppose when one is in the situation that my comrades and myself find ourselves, one learns not to ask questions. Tempers run high, and fights have a way of breaking out.

As the last of the large fireworks displays went off above the skyscrapers, I thought I heard something from behind the watch shop, maybe in the alley back there where the local businesses dumped their rubbish in big metal bins. I perked up, cocking my ear to listen better. All I could hear was the crash of the fireworks exploding.

I turned to my companion. As much as I didn't want to get close to anybody, he had become my friend. My close friend. They all had. When you live and work with someone for so long, you can't help but feel connected to them somehow. "Hey Blink," I said, playing with the chain watch I kept in the pocket of my vest. "Did you hear something?"

"Are you kidding?" Blink turned to me with a look if incredulity on his face, which looked utterly comical. Kid Blink could make the most amusing faces when he wasn't even trying. "I can barely hear _you_ over the fireworks, much less something else."

I shrugged. He did have a point. We watched the last big display fade away into oblivion, then climbed to our feet with the smaller fireworks still going off with _pops_ above the tall business offices and hotels and apartment buildings. "Well, let's head on home." I suggested, smoothing out my trousers. For once, the creases didn't cling to the inside of my knees with sweat; there just wasn't the heat and the humidity that generally accompanied the Manhattan summer.

"Yeah," Blink agreed, readjusting his cap over his bright blonde hair. He climbed to his feet, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to reveal his forearms, and followed me down the sidewalk in the direction of the Lodging House where we had lived for nigh on six years now. "Kloppman won't hesitate to lock us out if we miss the curfew."

"Not to mention we'll get arrested if the bulls catch us." I added, pulling a cigar out of the pocket of my trousers. It was a sweet-smelling Cuban make, and extremely expensive. I had had to save up five weeks of poker winnings in order to pay for a pack of five, and this was the only one I had left. I thought tonight was a good day to smoke it, what with the unusual weather and the magical fireworks going off above my head.

I put the cigar between my teeth, just tasting it at first. Then I produced a flimsy book of matches and struck one, lighting the end of the cigar and inhaling deeply. The first inhale is the best, and it filled my lungs with the sweetest smoke. I licked the taste from my lips, tossing the match aside and stepping on it to put the flame out.

We passed by the alley behind the watch shop, and Blink suddenly stopped. He peered down the narrow, dark space with his good eye squinting into the dark. "Hey, did you hear that?" He asked in a whisper, inching closer to the mouth of the alley.

"Oh, now you hear things." I rolled my eyes, taking another drag off the cigar. I couldn't shake the feeling that I had heard something from back there earlier, though. I cupped my free hand around my ear and strained to listen. Now I heard nothing. "Sorry buddy. I don't hear anything." I said.

Blink didn't move. "I really think there's something down there."

"It's probably just a stray cat or a rat scavenging through the rubbish." I muttered, flicking the ashes off the end of my precious cigar. "Now, come on or Kloppman will lock us out, and I saved my three cents for a bed tonight."

"I'm going to go check it out." Blink said, and he disappeared down the alley, stepping over piles of spilled rubbish and puddles that looked suspiciously like human waste.

I slapped my hand against my forehead. 'Jesus-friggin-Christ,' I thought to myself. Sometimes I could handle Blink's tendency to be overdramatic and overly-suspicious; at other times, like now, it was only a nuisance. I wanted a bed to sleep in, and we only had twenty-one minutes before Kloppman closed the doors of the Lodging House for the night.

I pulled my pocket watch out and checked the time again, tapping my foot impatiently as I puffed on m expensive cigar. Just as I was about to raise my voice and yell for Blink to hurry it the hell up, I heard him call to me.

"Race!" He shouted, and I could tell from his voice that something was wrong. One thing I learned about Kid Blink was that he didn't freak out about things unless it merited getting upset about. And he was certainly upset now, possibly more upset than I had ever heard him before.

I put my cigar out on a brick and put the remaining stub in my pocket to enjoy later. Then I jogged down the alley, sidestepping the same piles of rubbish that Blink had avoided. I found him kneeling by a lumpy object roughly the shape of a person at the end of they alley. He looked up at me, and I could see disgust and utter horror in the one blue eye that was visible.

"What-" I began, thinking that perhaps Blink had taken it upon himself to be overly dramatic yet again; then he turned the person over so I could see the face, and I stopped in my tracks. Then I promptly turned aside and vomited. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. The weather, which had just seemed so pleasant and perfect, was now suddenly so oppressive that I wanted to run away, far away.

I took another glance at the body. Living on the streets, one learns to get used to seeing things you didn't want to see. I'd seen countless dead bodies in my time since I'd run away from my ma and father, but even that hadn't prepared me for this… girl, if that's what she could be called. She wasn't dead; I could see her chest rising and falling with each shallow, painful breath she took. This girl had been tortured, that much was obvious. She had been tortured almost to death by some sadist.

The first thing I noticed was her dress. It reminded me of some fancy frock I'd seen when selling down near Park Avenue. If the dress was any indication, this girl came from money. Old money, too. If her skin hadn't been covered in fresh blood and caked with mud, I would assume it was pearly and soft.

Her face was possibly the worst part. It was swollen almost to an unrecognizable point. It was black and blue all over, and she was bleeding freely from a broken nose and a split lip. She had a long gaping wound running the length of her cheek, starting just below her right eye and continuing all the way down to her chin. The top of her left ear had been cut away by a sharp instrument, and a large clump of her dirty-blonde hair had been pulled out, leaving her scalp bloody.

The rest of her body appeared injured as well. Two fingers on her right hand had been bent backwards as if she had struggled against her attackers. A finger on her left hand had been sliced cleanly off, with bloody flowing freely onto the cobblestones beneath her. Her right leg was bent at an awkward angle, indicating a probable break. There were bruises on her neck, indicating strangulation, and her wrists were badly bruised as well.

"What are we going to do?" Blink demanded, holding the girl's hand delicately between his fingers as he felt for a pulse. I was sure it was still there, but faint. She was fighting, but fading fast. "We've got to get her to the hospital before she dies on us."

A red light went off in my brain. "No, bad idea." I objected. Blink gaped at me like I was insane. "If we take her to the hospital, those doctors and nurses will think that _we_ did this to her!" I'd been in jail once before for petty theft. It had been a brief sojourn, but not one I wished to repeat.

"Why would we try to kill someone and then bring her immediately to the hospital?" Blink demanded, laying the girl's arm down again.

I didn't want to risk it, but I had another valid objection. "The hospital is too far away to take her. Even if we took turns carrying her, we'd never make it in time. She's practically dying now."

I could see that Blink thought my point was valid. "Alright." He climbed to his feet and lifted the girl into his arms. She appeared fairly light, and her broken leg dangled at that awkward angle. "Let's get her to the Lodging House. It's only about two blocks away, and we should be able to make it there before curfew."

I led the way out of the alley and down the street. There were no more fireworks in the sky. "Isn't Kloppman a Civil War veteran?" I asked as we strode briskly. The girl's head bobbed on her injured neck as we walked, so I took it in my hands to steady it and prevent further damage. I immediately felt her warm blood running over my hands, and I fought another urge to vomit.

"Yeah, I remember him saying something about that quite a lot before." Blink agreed as we hurried along, huffing and puffing from our rushed efforts. "I also remember him saying how he was a surgeon's aide in the war, so he's the best choice to help this girl."

We were silent for a while as we neared the Lodging House. Finally, Blink said, "Do you think she'll live?"

It was a morbid question, but the circumstances were morbid. "I don't know." I answered, but I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Nobody, especially not a rich little girl from Upper Manhattan, could survive an attack like this.

Which got me thinking. What could this little, innocent young woman have done to deserve murder? That's what had been attempted, but somehow she had survived. Maybe Blink and I had stopped the attackers from finishing what they started, but I doubted it. I think they had been gone for a quarter of an hour or longer by the time my buddy and I stumbled upon the body. If we had been any later, she might already have been dead.

But was it fate that brought us to the scene of the crime? I don't believe in fate. I was raised Catholic, but I've never been religious. I don't particularly believe in the Bible, or the papacy. I think religion is forced on the world by people with too much imagination and too much free time. But the idea of fate was around before religion, before anything else really. And the main question was: did fate exist? Is that why this girl came into our lives? I had no way of knowing at the time whether she would live or die, but I somehow felt she was important.

I wouldn't find out until the end of the summer, but I had a feeling.

Blink and I arrived at the Lodging House just as Kloppman was moving out from behind his counter to lock the doors for the night. He liked all of us regulars, and knew almost all of us by name, but he was very strict about his curfew hours. If he didn't comply with the law, they could shut him down, and Kloppman was an old war veteran who couldn't have that.

He started to make a joke when Blink and I came stumbling up the walk towards the door. "Why, Racetrack and Kid Blink, I didn't think-" He stopped when he saw the girl lying limply between us, mostly in Blink's arms. I still had a hold of her blood-stained head, trying to avoid her severed ear. "What in God's name happened here?"

As Kloppman led the way inside the Lodging House, I relayed, in a rapid tone, what exactly had transpired and how we discovered the girl's body. The old man pushed open the door to the office, which was a tiny room in between the lobby and Kloppman's own private room. We were hardly ever allowed in the office, which was where extra cots were stored for nights, mostly in the winter, when there weren't enough beds in the dormitory.

"Alright," The old man said as we lowered the girl onto the cot. She let out a low moan, almost a whimper, as her broken leg bumped against the edge of the cot. "I need you to get me a bucket of water and some clean towels." He instructed us.

Blink and I didn't need to be told twice. We took the stairs two at a time and stumbled into the darkened dormitory. Everybody was asleep, oblivious to the drama unfolding downstairs. Blink and I were both covered in blood, but nobody was awake to see it.

Except Snipeshooter. He raised his head sleepily from his pillow and looked at me, blood dripping from my hands. "What're you doing, Race?" He demanded.

"Nothing. Go back to bed." I snapped in a low voice, grabbing a tin pail and pumping cool water into it while Blink snatched every clean towel he could lay his hands into.

We clomped back downstairs to the office with the tools required in our hands. Kloppman had retrieved a leather satchel from his private room, and we saw him open it and pull out a needle. _Oh god_, I thought to myself, and my stomach did another lurch. _The old man's going to sew up the gash in her face_. I could see he had already created a makeshift tourniquet to stem the blood flow from her finger. The ear was still bleeding, but the flow had slowed considerably from when we had found her. I suppose ears don't bleed as much as fingers.

"We brought what you wanted, Mr. Kloppman," I told him. Although usually I would have been witty and sharp, I had been scared by the circumstances into being polite.

The old man took a towel from Blink and dunked it into the bucket of water I was holding. Cold water splashed all over my hands, making little paths in the maroon blood dried there.

Kloppman looked at us as he began to gently mop the blood from her face, trying to assess the amount of damage done to it. "What are you still doing here?" He practically growled at us. I don't think I've ever heard Kloppman sound that way. "Get out of here!"

We didn't hesitate to comply. Blink and I raced out of the office, and the door shut behind us. Even though it was getting late, and we had been tired earlier, neither of us could sleep now. We sat out on the stoop, now not having to worry about the doors being locked behind us.

We sat there, the two of us, puffing away on hand-rolled cigarettes and trying to calm our disturbed nerves. The night was completely silent all around us. I shivered despite the warm air.

"What happens if she dies?" Blink asked, taking a long drag and exhaling smoke between his pursed lips. "What if we did all this and she still dies?"

I inhaled deeply from my cigarette. It was more calming than my cigar but tasted less appetizing. In any case, I needed to calm down. "Well, then at least we will have tried."

**_Okay, so I suppose the dialogue isn't quite that of New York street kids in the early 1900s, but I don't get into that whole putting the accents and atuff into dialogue. I've got a good enough imagination to do it in my head. Please review. XOXO_**


	2. She Said Just Give It Time, Kid

**Okay, seriously people. Review. I've had more reviews on silly stories that were complete nonsense than on this one, which I really tried on. Thanks to deanandhisimpala for reviewing!I love you! And just to let you know, I'm pretty much in love with jensen ackles too. I'm working on a killer supernatural story right now, so I'll start posting it once it's finished. So yeah, you silly people who put this on your story alert list without reviewing, naughty naughty. **

**Anyway, I don't own newsies. Sadly. I wish I did. Don't we all? But I do own the girl in this story and anything you don't recognize from the 1992 movie, although technically most of those characters were based off of real people, so I don't know if Disney can own real people, but if it can be done, I'm sure Disney has figured out a way. In any case, I don't own much. I'm a college kid with two jobs and yet I'm still poor. **

**Chapter Two**

**"God I dreamedthere was an angel who could hear me through the wall**

**As I cried out like in Latin, this is so not life at all**

**Help me out, out of this nightmare, then I heard her silver call**

**She said just give it time, kid; I come to one and all**

**She said give me that hand please, an itch you can't control**

**Let me teach you how to handle all the sadness in your soul**

**Oh we'll work that silver magic and we'll aim it at the wall**

**She said love may make you blind, kid, but I wouldn't mind at all."**

**-The Bitch of Living from the musical Spring Awakening**

I was eighteen years old. I had been alive for less than two decades, and already I felt like a father. As if. I'd never had a real relationship with a girl, and I doubted I would in the next several years. Then again, things happened every day that surprised me. 

"Hurry it up." I called over my shoulder to my little brother, who was the reason why I felt like I was a father. Little Les, the one the ladies cooed over and petted, was eleven years old and the biggest pain I'd ever encountered. When I was seven, and Les had been born, I was overjoyed. I was an introverted child, not unlike my days as a teenager before becoming involved with the newsies, and all I had for companionship was my sister Sarah, who was a year older than I was. 

It didn't take me long to discover that having Les around was not a good thing. Don't get me wrong, I love the little bugger, but sometimes I wish he was older. As a baby, he cried nonstop. Since both Sarah and I were already older, everybody doted on little Les. Then, he grew and became more of a pain to my mother and pop, and he was more often than not shoved on me. 

At first I thought it was unfair because Sarah was older _and_ a girl. She should have been the one to keep an eye on Les during the day. But Sarah worked in a factory to bring in extra money for our family. Both Les and I went to school, so it only made sense to our folks that I be the one to look after Les. 

"I mean it, if you don't keep up I'm going to take you back home and leave you there." I threatened again. 

Les stumbled a little as his legs were far shorter than mine. "I'm coming." He mumbled. 

We were on our way to the newsboys' Lodging House. I was a newsie, or I was when I wasn't attending school. I would graduate this year, and I was hoping to get a scholarship to a university. I sort of doubted that it was going to go through. Jewish boys from poor working-class immigrant families like mine don't get scholarships to universities. 

Les is a newsie too, although he uses his cute-little-kid act most often to sell papes. I don't even really consider that _selling_. So we were both newsies, but we didn't reside in the newsboys' Lodging House. We lived at home with our pop, our mother, and Sarah. But we were on our way to the Lodging House on an urgent mission. 

It was Les who came with the mission, I suppose, but it was meant for me. I'm the brains behind our little organization, the diplomatic one that everyone comes to when something hard needs to get done. Les had been at the Lodging House without me, which he wasn't supposed to do because I could get in trouble. But Jack had told him to run and get me as fast as he could, which was why we were weaving our way in between and around the other people in the Manhattan streets. 

I wasn't entirely sure why my talents were needed so immediately, but I had a feeling it had something to do with the girl Racetrack and Kid Blink had found beaten nearly to death two days ago. 

I didn't know much about her; nobody really did. So far, the only people to even see her were Blink, Race, and the old man who ran the Lodging House, Mr. Kloppman. Even Jack Kelly, my best pal and the unofficial leader of the Manhattan newsies, hadn't seen her. Mr. Kloppman didn't want people ogling a dying girl in a coma, and I could understand that. If I had been nearly murdered, I wouldn't want people staring at me as I waited unconsciously for death to claim me. 

When we arrived at the Lodging House, however, I discovered that my assumption was incorrect. The girl wasn't dying. _She was waking up_. She hadn't woken up yet, I learned when Les and I were pulled into the lobby of the Lodging House by a small group of newsies. It was early afternoon, and everyone was already done selling the morning edition and the evening hadn't come out yet, but it wasn't often that they hung around the Lodging House. Usually they could be found at Tibby's, a little restaurant close by, or near Central Park. 

"I thought you'd never get here, Dave." Jack said, putting an arm around my shoulder and guiding me over toward the office door. I didn't know about the other boys, but I'd never been in the office; I'd never even seen inside it. 

I allowed myself to be steered over toward the door, the other boys clearing a path for us. "What's going on?" I demanded, loosening the tie around my neck. I'd come from school, and I hadn't had time to change yet. The weather outside was not pleasant for running around in vests and ties, but it wasn't my choice. 

"So I told you about that broad Race and Blink found a couple days ago, right?" Jack asked. I inwardly cringed. I hated the way Jack could talk about women (calling them _broads _and other names) and still woo them. He'd had more girlfriends in the past couple years than I'd had in my entire life, including my sister Sarah. Instead of calling him out on what I viewed as his inappropriate name-calling, I nodded. "Well we all thought she was going to die. I mean, none of us have seen her except Blink and Race, but they said she was real beat up. They didn't think she was going to make it though."

It took all of my will-power not to yell at him to spit his message out. "Yes, you told me. Now what about this girl is so important?" 

Jack clutched my shoulders. "She's waking up. At least, we think she is. Kloppman says she's been tossing and turning, and she's been moaning and stuff."

"Good for her." I was glad she wasn't dying, but I didn't see how my presence was necessary in this situation. "Did you bring me here to tell me that?" 

Jack gave me a knowing look, and I instantly felt abashed. I don't know what had come over me. I used to be this quiet Jewish kid who followed all the rules. Since meeting the newsboys a couple summers back, I've turned into this disrespectful bum who has started talking like the motherless wretches I hang out with. 

"We brought you here because when she wakes up, somebody's got to talk to her." Jack explained. "And since all of us can be a little intimidating, we thought you would be the best choice." 

I decided to overlook the veiled insult there. Jack had insinuated that I wasn't as tough or strong or scary as the other guys, but I chose to take it as a compliment that I was more eloquent than all the other boys put together. That's what an education does for you, my friend. 

I still didn't know exactly what I was supposed to do, however. Talk to her? About what? "So you want me to talk to her when she wakes up?" _About the weather_? 

Jack nodded. "Find out her name, where she comes from, and if she has any family that we should get in contact with. And find out what happened to her. She must've done something to really piss someone off, I'm telling you." 

Mr. Kloppman was nearby, and he nodded at me as if he approved of this whole arrangement. Since I'd become dubbed the "Walking Mouth" a couple years back, people had taken it very seriously. He beckoned to me, and I followed him. We slipped inside the office and the elderly gentleman closed the door quickly before too many prying eyes could peek into the dim interior. 

I turned to survey the office. It was very small, barely containing the cot and the two chairs that were set up there. The lights were very dim, as well. Even though electricity was common throughout New York, there were no electrical lights in the office. It was lit only by a solitary lantern that emitted a flickering orange glow. 

The girl was lying on the cot with her arms resting by her side as if she was already dead, but I could see the visible rise and fall of her chest. She was lying underneath a thin blanket, but I could see that Mr. Kloppman had changed her into an old shirt belonging to a newsie who had either lost it or left it behind while living at the Lodging House. From what I had heard from Kid Blink, her gown had been in veritable tatters. I wondered if the caretaker had thrown it away. 

Her right leg, scandalously bare, was elevated on a pillow and uncovered by the thin blanket. Mr. Kloppman, who I had heard had a medical history, had placed two boards on either side of the broken leg and used ropes to hold it in place so the bone would mend the correct way. I noticed two more makeshift splints on two of the fingers on her right hand. She was missing a finger on her left hand, where the elderly man had made a tourniquet, but it was dotted with bright red blood. 

A large gash in her cheek had been sewn up with a simple needle and thread. It looked messy and would definitely leave a scar, but it appeared to be holding her face together. The skin on her face was a mottled purple. Her nose had been broken, though Mr. Kloppman had set it as carefully as he could, and her bottom lip had been split open. I also noticed a bald patch in her masses of dirty blonde hair. 

I muttered to myself in Hebrew, something I had done often as a child but had done less and less as I grew older. There just weren't any English words to describe the horror I felt at what had happened to this girl. She was missing part of her ear, for God's sake! I asked myself over and over again, as I took a seat on one of the hard-backed wooden chairs in the room, what kind of sadist could do something like that to an innocent little girl? 

Well, I couldn't assume for sure that she was innocent. Like Jack said, she must have done something to really anger someone, but no matter what she had done, it couldn't have deserved a fate like this. And she was little, too. Not necessarily young; I would have put her anywhere between sixteen and nineteen. She was just small of stature. I could have fit my forefinger and thumb around her wrist easily if I tried. 

The way Jack had made it sound like such an emergency, I thought that the girl was waking up right that moment. As it was, I had to wait there for two hours before she so much as stirred. 

When she did though, it was obvious she was coming to. Her blonde eyelashes fluttered and she struggled to open her swollen eyelids. Beneath them, her eyes were black as night. She frowned at the pain, and a single tear welled in the corner of one eye, but that was it. I thought she was being very brave considering the extent of her terrible injuries. 

She looked at me, at Mr. Kloppman, and then back to me. Those eyes were haunting, though I wasn't sure just why. I saw her look down at her hand, the one with the two broken fingers; then she looked at the other, the one with the finger missing. She lifted it ever so slightly to get a better look, and I could see from the calm look on her face that she was entirely in shock. I couldn't imagine waking up to see I was missing a very useful digit. 

With the finger-less hand, she touched her face. She felt her swollen cheek, the stitches along the length of her face, her broken nose. I saw her hand slide up into her soft hair and stop when it crossed the bald patch. She calmly returned her hand to her side and turned her attention to me once more. 

"Hello, sir." She greeted me in a polite voice that seemed too deep for such a small person. "I was wondering if you could tell me what has happened to me. I seem to have been in an accident of some sort."

I was struck immediately by her diction. She talked like no one I had ever come into contact with before. This girl had never lived on the streets; when Racetrack and Kid Blink had guessed that she was from a wealthy family, they must have been correct. This was an upper Manhattan girl if I had ever met one. 

I cleared my throat uncertainly. "Uh, I don't quite know what happened to you, Miss. I was hoping you could enlighten me."

She sighed in disappointment. "I'm afraid not." She grimaced. "I'm in a terrible amount of pain."

"I would expect so." I agreed. "A couple friends of mine found you two nights ago, nearly dead. Mr. Kloppman here has been nursing you back to health. And doing a good job of it, too, if I may say so. We all thought you were going to die." 

The girl turned her gaze to the elderly man, and she tried to smile. It looked like it hurt, because she stopped quickly. "Thank you very much, sir." He nodded to her, and she turned back to me. "I wish one of us knew what had 

happened to me." Her next words surprised me very much, and almost made me reassess my initial opinion of her. "Because I'd like to get my hands on them and kill them." She said it with such conviction that I really believed she was capable of it. Then she sighed and tried to blow a loose piece of her blonde hair out of her face. I reached up and moved it for her, which was perhaps a bit forward on my part, but I didn't want to cause her any more discomfort than was necessary. 

She smiled shortly at me. "Thank you." She said. "So, do you know where I came from? Or who I am?"

Her questions took me by surprise. I could understand not remembering her brutal attack, as she appeared to have a great deal of head trauma, but full-blown amnesia was something entirely different. 

"Y-you don't know who you are?" I repeated. She nodded, although it looked painful because of the intense bruising on her neck. "What about your name?"

She shrugged the best she could. "Beats me." She tried to peer down past her waist. "What happened to me down there? Did those bastards rape me?"

I was completely taken aback, not only by her choice of language, but by how she said it. She spoke with conviction, and she knew what she was talking about. Even if she had the voice and mannerisms of a wealthy person, this girl had at least spent time on the streets. Maybe not living there, but she had associated with people and in places that would probably make my toenails curl. And, if she had been hanging around in unsavory places, she might actually have done something to make someone want to kill her. 

Our problem was that she didn't remember. Nor did she have a name. 

She looked down at her missing finger again, and I could see her brain working behind those black eyes. The shock was wearing off, and I'm sure her pain was intensifying as well. 

"W-what happened to my hand?" She asked me. Her voice, which had been strong and confident and polite earlier, was now shaky and terrified and pained. 

I took a deep breath. "Miss, I don't know exactly who did this to you or why, but we're going to try and help you find out who tried to kill you." 

She began to cry. Even though I have a sister who, as a result of dating Jack Kelly, is very emotional, I don't really handle girly emotions too well. Sarah sometimes says I don't like when she acts like a girl because I act enough like a girl for the both of us. I find that highly offensive, but it doesn't change the fact that I don't like when girls cry in front of me. 

I patted her awkwardly on the shoulder, trying to avoid her injuries. I didn't know what else to say or do. 

Mr. Kloppman stepped forward, his first real motion since the girl had regained consciousness. "Mr. Jacobs, I think it would be a good idea to let the young lady get some rest now. It's been a tough afternoon."

I was all too ready to agree. "I'll come talk to you again soon. Try to get some rest." I told her, giving her the most reassuring smile I could manage. I nodded toward her respectfully, then hurried out of the tiny office. 

The boys waiting in the lobby seemed to have almost given up hope that I was ever going to emerge. My sudden appearance in their midst caused a babble to break out immediately. Jack, Mush, Blink, Race, Crutchy and the others there surrounded me. 

"What happened?" "Did she wake up?" "What's her name?" "What happened to her?" 

"Woah, woah. One at a time." I held up my hands to stop them. "She woke up, and she's coherent. I think she's from an upscale, wealthy family. Or, at least I did at first. She hasn't got a clue what happened to her, or even where 

she came from." I took a deep breath, knowing that this wasn't at all what my friends were expecting. "She doesn't even remember her own name."

**Okay, so there you have chapterdos. Or deux, considering I just came from an 8 am French class. I took over four years of Spanish, and now I'm taking French. WEIRDED OUT.Not really. I'm just rambling now. Putting off mymaths project (who assigns a math project, really?) and my history paper. Bleh. Looking forward to dance today. We're doingFosse, who is pretty much my favorite choreographer who ever lived. He revolutionized the dance world. Too bad he's dead now. Anyway, if you're ever in the need for a good dance, watch RichMan's Frug from the play Sweet Charity. Yummy. It's amazing. We're doingHey Big Spender in my class though,which is okay because I love that song too. Wow, I really am rambling now... Sorry. Just review please. Expect the next chapter on March 25. But if I have no reviews, I'm withholding it for another week even though it's already written. xoxo**


	3. Can't Bring My Broken Heart To Be Untrue

_**Okay, so the lack of reviews is highly daunting in this situation. Only three reviews for two chapters? Come on now. Anyway, here is chapter three as promised, on time and complete. You're lucky I'm even up this early. I had a French test at 8 am this morning, though. If it wasn't for that, I wouldn't get out of bed. My room is like 59 degrees. It's so cold. Our heat isn't working. Bleh. **_

**Chapter Three**

The seventh of July was scorching, but there was no humidity in the air. I was in a good mood; I don't know why. There was a girl who was supposed to be dead lying on a cot in the office of my lodging house, but I was still whistling as I strolled across the Brooklyn Bridge.

I know it's silly, but to me, Brooklyn is an entirely different country. I always feel like I'm traveling somewhere grand when I come to Brooklyn. It's just as run-down as my territory, Manhattan, is, but Brooklyn has an air of mystery and lure to it.

I shouldn't have even been in Brooklyn that day. It was too hot to really be making the journey, and I needed to get back to Manhattan in time to sell the evening newspaper. But I wanted to come and tell my news to Spot Conlon, the self-proclaimed King of Brooklyn. Well, I wouldn't say the title was necessarily disputed. I don't think any sane person would ever willingly come up against Spot.

My news was that I had a living miracle residing in my Lodging House. A little girl getting almost murdered two blocks from where I live is a big deal. The fact that she was pulling through it was an even bigger deal. Spot is usually the one that has interesting stories to hold over my head, and I was going to enjoy having something fascinating to tell him for once.

My feet traveled the ever-familiar path towards the docks. I came to Brooklyn so often that my feet knew every groove in the cobblestone, every store I passed, and I didn't even live there. I found my way quickly to the docks. Because of the intense heat and the time of the day, more than half of the Brooklyn newsies were in the water of the harbor, splashing one another and trying to keep cool.

I only knew a couple of them by name, some that Spot himself had introduced me to because he thought they were actually worth something. I'd like to think that Spot and I are fairly equal as faction leaders when it comes to the world of selling newspapers. He's a better leader than I am, I can't deny that. He can just look at someone and have them quaking in their shoes. I actually have to prove myself before people take me seriously. Plus, Spot has got a damn good head on his shoulders. He's almost as smart as David. I'm convinced that if Spot had had the chance to get an education, he would have passed David long ago in that department. I'm not so smart, which is why I've got Dave to tell me what's what. The thing I've got, though, is great newsies. My boys are better than Spot's by a long shot. If you mix Spot with my newsies, you've got a pretty scary scene on your hands.

Because of the lack of outstanding newsies in Brooklyn, I knew few of their names. I picked out one whose name I had heard in passing a few months ago. "Hey, Frankie!" I called to him. He was an unfortunate-looking boy of about thirteen, and he looked up in surprise when I shouted his name. "Where's Spot Conlon?"

The boy cupped his hands around his mouth, treading water all the time. "He's at the Lodging House!" He shouted back to me.

It was strange for Spot to be found indoors during the summer, but the intense heat could be the reason. Generally, Spot was out from dawn until dusk, marking his territory, dealing with disputes, the usual things that come with being a faction leader.

I reached the Brooklyn Lodging House for boys before too long. I'd like to think the one in Manhattan is nicer, but we pay a penny more each for our beds at night. Then again, we get beds that are lice-free and restrooms that are cleaned weekly.

I pushed open the door to the Lodging House and tipped my cowboy hat to the old man behind the counter. He's a bit older than good old Kloppman, and doesn't hear or see too well. I think he was about to call out to me, perhaps asking me for my money, but I was already up the stairs and into the dormitory.

"Spot!" I called.

I found him lounging on his bed. He was the only one who had a bed that wasn't bunked. He got that one because he was the undisputed King of Brooklyn. He was staring out the window, although there was no view except that of a brick wall opposite the Lodging House. He was fiddling with that dumb key necklace he always wears around his neck. He's worn it for as long as I've known him, but I've never heard him give an explanation for why he wears it. And it's not really something you ask Spot Conlon.

"What do you want?" Was the answer I received. I was used to Spot being cool and distant when there were other people around, but I had never heard him be so harsh when it was just the two of us.

I stopped a few feet shy of his bed, not wanting to invade his personal space. That was a mistake I was too smart to make. "What's the matter with you? I ain't done nothing."

He didn't answer me for a moment, then took a deep breath. "Kelly, can you keep a secret?"

I was on my guard at once. If the famous Spot Conlon offers to tell you a secret, you don't pass up a chance like that. "Of course." I promised.

He turned his intense blue eyes upon me, and I almost shivered under that gaze. "If you tell anyone what I am about to tell you, Jack, I will kill you." And I didn't doubt for one second that he would.

"I swear on my mother's grave that I will never tell anyone." I promised, returning his serious gaze. "Now, please tell me what the hell is going on. I've never seen you like this."

Spot seemed to be battling with himself for a moment, then let out a tremendous sigh. "It's my girl." He admitted.

I was completely taken aback. As long as I'd known Spot, he'd been a womanizer. He'd never been tied down to any one person. "I didn't know you had a girl."

"Nobody does, except you." Spot dropped the key against his chest and began fiddling with the cane he wore at his belt. "And she's not my girl anymore."

From the way he said it, I got the impression that he was not the one who had ended the relationship. I didn't want to push my luck, but I had to know, so I said, "What happened?"

Spot shrugged, still staring out the window. "I don't really know. I was supposed to meet her one night, and she didn't show. I got worried," He sounded angry at himself and embarrassed that he was admitting such a weakness. "So I went to her house. She sent me away. She acted like she never wanted to see me again." He sounded confused, and I admit that I didn't understand any more about it than he did. "Now, whenever I see her, she acts like I don't exist."

"Maybe-" I started to suggest, but Spot cut me off.

"No." He said sharply. "There is no logical reason to why she would just drop me like that." He scowled at the floor, then turned his attention to me. "Now is there a reason you showed up here to interrupt my brooding, or did you just come to annoy me?"

I felt that this was perhaps not the best time to bring up my nearly-dead girl in Manhattan, so I said a hurried goodbye and left the Lodging House. I left Brooklyn quickly, torn between wishing I had never bothered to come down and exhilarated that I knew something private about Spot Conlon. That could come in very useful someday.

I arrived back at the Manhattan Lodging House with about an hour to spare before the evening edition came out, so I walked up the steps and into the building. The first thing I noticed was that four of my boys were crowded into the office, where the girl was lying in bed.

I hadn't yet seen her, and, as the unofficial leader of the Manhattan newsboy faction, I felt it was my right and duty to speak with her. I pushed my way into the room. She was popped up on her cot with pillows swiped from some of the empty bunks upstairs. She was terribly pale, but from her delicate skin I could see she had been from a wealthy upbringing. She had stitches going down the right length of her face, which was swollen and bruised. Behind the wounds, she had a healthy, pretty look about her. Of course, it was impossible to tell for sure.

Four of my newsies were sitting around her. Mush, Kid Blink, Boots, and Crutchy. I think the only reason Crutchy was there was because he felt somehow connected to her, what with him having a bum leg and her having her right leg raised up in a splint.

She looked up when I entered the room, and her black eyes fixed on me. She smiled at me, or at least tried. The side of her face with the stitches refused to move much, as if it was stiff. The other side of her mouth, with full and pouty lips that were far more lush than my girl Sarah's, turned up in an undeniable smile. "Hello there." She greeted me in a throaty voice. "And which one are you?"

I walked up and extended my hand to her, eyeing her extensive injuries. "Jack Kelly."

She took my hand and shook it. I noticed that two of her fingers were splinted when she put her small hand in my larger one. "Ah, so you're the famous one they've all been telling me about. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

"The stories can't be all bad." I teased her. I was surprised by how cheerful and congenial she was. After being nearly murdered, I would have been in a pretty foul mood for several weeks, possibly months. I don't think I would have been capable of a civil conversation. "So do you have a pretty name to go along with that pretty face?"

She blushed a little; I could see it underneath the massive bruising. Even though she hadn't seen herself in a mirror or anything, I'm pretty sure she knew she wasn't in a pretty state just now. "Alas, I have no name at all."

"Well, we'll have to remedy that mistake. If you're going to be hanging around here, you need a fitting name." I told her. It was a shame about the bald spot on her head. She had a great head of hair; it put Sarah's brunette hair to shame.

"How about Princess?" Crutchy, who is sort of a princess himself, suggested. Don't get me wrong, I like Crutchy and all, but sometimes he's a little too feminine for my personal tastes. I also didn't like the nickname. I didn't think it suited the girl. Despite her obvious upscale bringing, this girl was a fighter. No princess could be nearly murdered and survive like she did.

Apparently Boots agreed with me. "No way. This munchkin ain't no princess."

Mush let out a little laugh. "Since when did she become a munchkin?" He teased, and Boots blushed crimson. "You weren't much taller than her until about two months ago when you hit a growth spurt."

All the boys were having a little laugh, but I was thinking. Munchkin. That was a fairly accurate description of the girl lying on the cot before me. She was little in stature and had a spirit that was worth something. "Hey, what do you think about being called Munchkin?" I asked her.

The other boys looked at one another. They mumbled their agreement or dissent. It didn't matter to me one way or the other whether they liked the name or not. I was the leader and the ultimate decision was left to me. And I liked the name, so long as the girl would agree to go by it.

She seemed pleased, probably just at getting something to be called instead of 'miss.' "I like it." She smiled her strange half-smile that somehow was nicer than a real smile.

I figured that I was going to like this girl.

_The girl sat demurely in a finely upholstered wingback chair in the parlor of her home in Park Avenue. She sat, gowned in a fashionable blue frock, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She sat straight-backed, with perfect posture. The chair was situated in front of the enormous Victorian fireplace, a fire roaring in the hearth. Outside the ten foot parlor windows, snow was falling lightly. _

_Two middle-aged women were perched on the sofa, sipping steaming tea from pristine china teacups with their pinkies out. They were dressed so similarly that they could have been sisters, twins even. Their facial structure, however, suggested no relation at all. The first had high bone structure, similar to the girl herself. That was fitting, as this woman was the girl's mother. The second woman had less handsome features, but the fineness of her gown was a bit more defined than the girl's mother. _

_The two middle-aged women were chatting cheerfully to one another, laughing over their tea. The girl sat in her chair, her tea sitting untouched on the table beside her. She felt so calm on the outside. Her exterior was the perfect picture of a demure young lady. Inside, she was screaming. For someone who prided herself on being so smart, she couldn't think of anything to do, nothing witty to say, to get her out of this situation. And, according to the grandfather clock in the corner, she was running out of time. _

_The door opened and a distinguished man strode in, followed by two more gentlemen. The first bore a striking resemblance to the girl; her father. He was dressed in a fancy three-piece suit with a gold pocket watch hanging from his vest pocket. The second man was possibly a few years older than the girl's father, dressed equally well. He had black hair peppered with flecks of gray that gave him a distinguished look. But it was neither of those two men that the girl feared. It was the third. _

_He was perhaps twenty-two or twenty-three, and handsome, she supposed, if one was into the rich, stuck-up snob type of man. He was tall, taller than she was by a good head. He had dark hair cut quite short, swept to the side, and an award-winning smile. And it was the girl he turned that smile on. _

_The two middle aged women rose to welcome the men into the parlor. They greeted them, and everyone resumed their seats. The young man took the seat next to the girl, flashing her a smile as their fathers engaged in political conversation. The girl tried to avoid eye contact with him, but then he engaged her in conversation. _

_The girl was highly educated, having spent half of her childhood in a boarding school in England, but she feigned stupidity and gave only short, one-word answers. She hoped he would lose interest. Nobody wanted a boring wife, she supposed. _

_She hadn't thought of the physical aspect of her impending marriage. This man sitting next to her didn't care if she could even formulate coherent sentences. He cared that she had a slim waist and even breasts that were of normal size. He cared that she had long blonde hair that he could wrap his fingers in, and that she had a full, pouty mouth that was perfect for kissing. _

_The man sitting next to her had nothing in mind except screwing her every night once they were pronounced man and wife. And the girl wasn't going to have that. _

_**Okay, so there is the third chapter. I hope you enjoyed. Please leave reviews. The next chapter is scheduled to be posted on April 1 (the day Sweeny Todd comes out on DVD what what) but if I don't see more reviews, I will not be posting it then. I'm not going to post again until there are 7 reviews for this story, capiche? I'm glad we understand one another. **_


	4. Can You Hide Them From the Waiting World

**So I never got the required seven reviews. But whatever. I really like this story so I guess I'll keep updating. You guys owe me. **

**Chapter Four**

It was about an hour till dawn when I woke up, drenched in sweat and trembling. That was nothing new for me. Since waking from a two-day coma a week ago, I had suffered an on-and-off fever and chills. The worst part of my illness had passed, but I still didn't feel up to par.

As I lay on my small cot, lying underneath a thin blanket, I tried to recall the dream that had woken me so abruptly from my troubled sleep. It had been about myself, I was convinced of that, but the details were fading fast. I had seen myself with my parents. At least, I thought they were my parents. I resembled them a great deal. There was also a couple that I couldn't even begin to name. Perhaps they were an aunt and uncle. And there had been a young gentleman too.

The young man was perhaps the most important part of my dream, more like a memory than anything else. He had seemed very congenial towards me, though my dream self hadn't seem too pleased with the advances. Perhaps this odd glimpse into my inner mind was more than a dream. Perhaps I was actually remembering something of my life before someone had tried to kill me.

It was tough not remembering who I was. After waking up from my coma, I had discovered that I knew nothing about myself. Who I was, where I was from, what my name was; it was all a mystery to me. It was disconcerting, knowing that I had been someone and now I was not.

They called me Munchkin. The boys, I mean. They all had little made-up nicknames for themselves, mostly I think because they wished to keep their true identities a secret. If I had known my real name and who I was, I would not shy away from being myself. Alas, they knew who they were and I did not know who I was. So I was called Munchkin until I could discover my true name.

I couldn't help but smile as I thought about the boys. They weren't all boys; some of them were grown men who still acted like children. It was they who had saved my life, stumbling across my abandoned body in a foul-smelling alley not far from where they lived. The old caretaker of the building, Mr. Kloppman, had been attending to my every need for the past week. He cleaned and dressed my wounds, which were extensive and disturbed me almost as much as the loss of my identity.

When I had woken up, I had been in a great deal of pain. I had broken two fingers on one hand, my leg, and my nose. In addition, I was missing an entire finger on my other hand. It was just _gone_. It hurt constantly, a dull throbbing that just wouldn't let me forget about its absence. On top of that, I had stitches in my face. It would most certainly scar. I had yet to see my reflection in a mirror (I was beginning to think that there was none in the Lodging House where I was staying), but I knew I would look terrible. I could feel it when I touched my face.

I turned onto my side, avoiding my injured left leg, and tried to fall back asleep. It was hot in the little room where I slept. As I had been brought into the newsboys Lodging House by the two chaps who found me, called Racetrack Higgins and Kid Blink, kind Mr. Kloppman had felt it indecent to put me in the dormitory with the patrons. For one thing, it was a _boys'_ dormitory, and I was, most definitely, a girl. Secondly, I had been in a coma for two days and was injured, and Mr. Kloppman felt I should rest away from the commotion of their daily life.

So I was in what everyone referred to as the _office_, though it looked nothing like what I imagined an office to look like. It was small and square, and very dim as it had no windows. The only light that entered the room now came from the crack underneath the door leading out to the lobby. Another door led to the private quarters of Mr. Kloppman, which could only be reached going through the office. There were spare cots stacked up against the walls, save for mine which had been pulled down. There was a small wooden table, very rickety, standing above the bed. Two hard-backed wooden chairs had been placed in the room for the boys' use when they came to visit me.

They had visited me often since I had woken up a week ago. They were conscientious of when I wanted to be left alone, when I was too tired for their company, when I was irritable. But when I wanted company, they were always there. They kept me entertained with outrageous tales I knew must be partially false; they brought me little gifts that they purchased at the general store with their spare change, which I knew must be hard to come by in their profession; they recited riddles and jokes that were only funny half of the time. But they kept me sane, I supposed. As sane as someone in my position could be.

Further sleep eluded me. My memory-dream had thoroughly woken me, and sleep was out of the question. I sighed heavily and reached above my head, turning the oil lamp higher and filling the room with a dull light that cast an orange glow over everything. Although parts of the building were wired for electricity, this room was not.

Getting out of bed was a chore I'd been practicing for a week now, and I was getting fairly efficient at it. I put my uninjured right leg down on the floor, then carefully moved my splinted left leg beside it. It was placed between two boards and strapped in securely so the bone would heal correctly. It was somewhat uncomfortable, but I had gotten used to it.

It made for interesting dress, however. I had been given some old hand-me-down clothes from some of the older boys: a blue and white checkered shirt that was several sizes too big and a pair of trousers. Mr. Kloppman had meticulously took out the seams on the left leg and rolled them up so I could wear them over my splint. It revealed a scandalous amount of my bare leg, but it was the best we could do in the circumstances.

With both legs over the side of the cot, I reached for one of the crutches they had made for me. I put my weight on my good leg and stood up, balancing on my right foot. I grasped the second crutch, putting it under my left arm, and walked around the room a couple times. It was difficult to maneuver the crutches with minus a finger on one hand and with two broken digits on the other, but I was managing. When I felt sufficiently warmed-up on the apparatus, I sat down in one of the chairs.

One of the boys had procured a comb earlier in the week (I assumed it was of illegal origins, but I had adopted a don't-ask policy), and I picked this up and began to comb through my hair. My fingertips ran over a bald patch in my scalp, where the hair must have been ripped away. It was too cleanly gone to have been cut with a razor or scissors. There was a small amount of stubble where the hair was beginning to grow back. I refused to linger, and I arranged the rest of my hair to cover that small bald patch. Using a bit of ribbon another boy had given me (again, I expected it was stolen), I tied my dark-blonde curls off my neck.

An older boy, by the name of Mush Meyers, had brought me a pitcher and basin with which to wash early in the week. I dipped a clean cloth into the cool water and delicately washed my face. I had to be extremely careful, what with the stitches and the broken nose. Besides that, my face was tender to the touch. Washing it was terribly painful, so I was as cursory with the task as I dared to be.

When I felt clean, I moved back to the bed. Now for the hardest part of my day: getting dressed. The gown I had been discovered in was ruined beyond repair, so an older newsboy called Jack had given me a skirt from his lady friend. It was a bit larger than I was, but beggars can't be choosers. Once I had the skirt in hand, I carefully put my injured leg in, followed by my good leg. Now the skirt was around both legs, but I had to get it up around my hips and fasten it. Holding onto the skirt with one hand, I propped myself up on one crutch and buttoned the skirt with my right hand, the one with the two broken fingers. It took me a good minute, but eventually the skirt was fastened.

The shoes I had been found wearing were still good. They were patent leather and of very fine quality. I pulled a stocking onto my right foot, then put on the right shoe. I would leave the left one. It was too painful to try and put it on my broken leg, so I would go barefoot. I was alright with that. The bottoms of my feet were calloused and tough, as if I had walked around often without shoes. The idea didn't sound terrible to me.

I was just tying the final knot on my right shoe when there was a soft knock on the door dividing the office from Mr. Kloppman's private room. He had knocked softly so he wouldn't disturb me if I was still asleep. "Do come in, Mr. Kloppman dear." I called to him.

The handle turned and the elderly gentleman entered the small room. He was quite old, in his seventies at least. He was slightly stooped with his age, but his face was jovial and very kind. He had hair that was mostly white, and he was dressed nearly as shabbily as his young patrons, but he didn't seem to mind. Mr. Kloppman seemed to enjoy helping the young orphans and runaways of Manhattan.

"Ah, Miss. You're awake." He greeted me cheerfully. He always called me 'Miss.' The boys called me Munchkin, but dear old Mr. Kloppman seemed to think this was an unsuitable name for me. "How are you feeling this morning?"

"Ravenous." I answered honestly. Though my appetite had been almost nonexistent in the first few days after I had woken up, it was returning with a vengeance. I could think of nothing else save warm hot cakes, scones, sweetened porridge, and bits of ham and sausage.

Mr. Kloppman chuckled at my reply. "Well, the nuns from Saint Luke's will be handing out breakfast in a quarter of an hour or so. You can get some there with the boys." He looked at me, noticing my pale complexion and haggard face. "Are you sure you feel well enough to go out?"

I fixed him with a steady, firm stare. "Mr. Kloppman," I said to him. "I have been cooped up in this building for a week, and if I am not allowed out I shall go insane."

He chuckled knowingly and nodded. "I see your point, Miss."

The elderly gentleman led the way into the lobby of the Lodging House. No one else was up yet, as it was still early. Mr. Kloppman excused himself to go and wake his young patrons, who paid three cents a night for a bed to sleep in. I felt guilty for not paying, but Mr. Kloppman didn't seem to mind. Plus, I didn't have any money.

While he entered the dormitory by way of the staircase, I perched myself on the stool behind the counter. I could hear Mr. Kloppman walking around, and then the noise of the boys being woken. They didn't sound too pleased about it. By the time the gentleman was coming back down the stairs, the newsboys were shouting at one another and roughhousing.

It was about fifteen minutes later when the boys headed down the stairs, led by Jack Kelly. He was the unofficial leader of this little faction of newsboys. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and good-looking. I think Jack Kelly wasn't his real name, but I didn't ask about it. At least it was normal. Jack was flanked, as usual, by his three closest friends: Racetrack Higgins, Mush Meyers, and Kid Blink.

Their names amused me to no end, mostly because it intrigued me to guess how they had gotten those names. Racetrack's was easy; the Italian-descended boy was a notorious gambler. He spent most of his time at the racetrack, betting on horse races. He had a tendency to smoke foul-smelling cigars, which I wasn't fond of, but he had an interesting sense of humor that I enjoyed. Mush's was a bit harder. I had learned from one of the other boys that he was fairly romantic with his girlfriend, and people called him Mush because of his romantic side. He was very genuine and thoughtful, and I enjoyed his company perhaps more than any of the others'. Kid Blink was missing his left eye, which accounted for his nickname. He wore a brown eye patch over it. Every time I saw it I was grateful I still had both my eyes.

"Heya Munchkin." Jack approached me at once, gently ruffling my hair. They were all very careful with me because of my injuries.

I allowed him to muss my hair, then smoothed it down and tied the ribbon once more. "Good morning, Jack." I replied, climbing up off my stool. I situated both crutches underneath my arms and hobbled about on them. Every time I took a step and had to put weight on my injured hands, pain shot through my arms up into my shoulders. I tried to ignore it.

Mush, who I had noticed was ever perceptive despite the others' opinion that he was a bit dim, noticed the discomfort on my face. "Are you sure you want to come out with us?" He asked me.

"Now, now." I shushed him. "If I'm to be living here for a while, I need to earn my own way and pay for board." I didn't mention my uneasy feeling, that uneasy feeling that I only had a little time to figure out who I was before everything was lost forever.

We left the Lodging House and headed in the direction of the circulation desk for the New York World, the newspaper the boys worked for. The going was slower with me in their midst, but the boys didn't seem to mind. They kept along with my pace, making sure I was getting along okay. It was hard to keep up with them, and painful, but I didn't want them to see how hard it was for me. They seemed to think so much of me.

Halfway to the circulation desk, we came to St. Luke's convent. It was a large Catholic church, complete with a Bishop and nuns who had dedicated their lives to God. I wasn't entirely sure, but I was fairly confident that I had been raised in the church. Even so, I didn't feel very religious as we approached the nuns handing out crispy bread and tin cups of cold coffee.

The boys graciously let me go first, and the nuns handed me a cup and a piece of bread. It was difficult to hang onto either of them as both my hands were occupied with my crutches. I squeezed the crutches under my armpits, balanced on my right foot, and shoved the bread into my mouth in what was, I'm afraid, an unladylike display. It wasn't sausage and hot cakes, but it was all I had. Then I gulped down the cold coffee, which was almost nauseating, and handed the empty tin cup back.

We moved on after that, reaching the circulation desk. I was supposed to be going with Jack to sell. Apparently he was the one to learn from, and he was loaning me some money so I could sell newspapers. Hopefully, I would earn enough to pay him back and purchase my own newspapers that evening.

As Jack purchased my newspapers for me, I thought about how much I didn't want to be selling newspapers. I knew I should appreciate what they were trying to do for me, but I didn't want to be like them. I wanted to find out who I was. If I had had any lead about my past, I would have left before now.

Instead, I followed Jack around on my crutches, hoping to make a little honest money.

_The girl was standing in the same parlor, though she looked older than she had the last time. She stood with her hands hanging loosely by her sides, gowned in a yellow dress that was elegant in its simplicity. Her blonde curls were pulled back with a simple clasp, hanging loosely over her shoulder. _

_The room was large, with a plush Persian carpet and wood paneling. The windows were framed by heavy brocade drapes, and the tops of leafy green trees could be seen even though it was evening. Two adults were sitting side by side on the couch, close but not touching. That characterized their marriage, the girl thought to herself. _

_Her father leaped to his feet. He was a tall and formidable man, dressed in his expensive suit with the dark red tie and the pocket watch attached to his vest. His large, angry face was purple; a vein throbbed violently in his temple. "Whore!" He shouted at her. _

_The girl's mother sat with her fingertips to her temples, but the girl knew it was because she was too angry to voice her thoughts at the moment. Her father liked to lash out, but it was her mother who was truly cruel. She calculated her every move in an effort to make it hurt the most. _

"_Whose is it?" Her father continued to shout at her, spit flying from his lips with every word. "Who does the bastard belong to?"_

_The girl didn't answer, but one of her hands meandered down to her belly. Her abdomen, just the slightest bit extended, wouldn't have been noticeable if it wasn't the object of all this anger. Or rather, the thing _within_ her womb. _

_Her mother finally lifted her head and regarded her daughter with cold detachment. "And just what will the neighbors think of this messy situation?" She asked the room at large. "What will the ladies down at the club say when they discover our daughter is expecting two weeks before her wedding is to take place?"_

"_We'll just say the child is Alexander's." Her father said, pacing the length of the room. He pulled a cigar from his breast pocket and began to smoke it. "She'll wait a month and then announce the pregnancy as if it occurred after the marriage took place."_

_Her mother was shaking her head. "No, no." She disagreed. "The ladies of society are much too smart to fall for that. They'll know that she was pregnant before they married." She finally spoke to her daughter. "And how far along are you?"_

_The girl gently rubbed her stomach, feeling an overwhelming wave of compassion for her unborn child. With all the hate in the room, she felt more connected to the baby than ever before. Nobody else wanted her to have it, but she did. She loved him or her so much already. "Three months." She answered. _

_Her mother let out an explosive sigh, exchanged a look with her husband, and turned back to her daughter. "At least tell us if it's Alexander's bastard."_

_The girl looked up, her hands still resting on her abdomen. _

I jerked awake, startled, my face wet. I was sitting in between Mush and Kid Blink on a plush covered seat. We were in a crowded restaurant by the name of Tibby's; not just the three of us, but all of the Manhattan newsboys that lived in Mr. Kloppman's establishment.

My dream was still fresh in my mind, along with the emotions that accompanied it. My heart was pounding, and my palms were sweaty. My hand strayed automatically to my abdomen. Was I pregnant? Was there a child growing in my womb? If I remembered nothing, it was possible.

Mush noticed my sudden jerk and turned to me. He saw the tears streaming down my cheeks, the salt from the tears stinging my healing stitches. He saw my hands clutching my stomach. "Munchkin, are you alright?"

I shook my head. "Mush, is there a hospital nearby?" I asked him in a whisper, trying to keep my voice steady. It was difficult. "I need you to take me there right away."

"Is everything okay?" He demanded, looking at all my obvious injuries to make sure I wasn't openly bleeding and no bones were protruding through my skin.

Again I shook my head. "No. No, Mush, it's not. We need to go right away if you're going to take me."

"Alright. Let's go." He agreed, and the two of us left the restaurant without saying goodbye to the rest of our companions. 

**Alright, there you go. The mystery girl's POV. I hope you enjoyed, and please review for me. It'll mean a lot. **


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